


Get Home

by everythingsace



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (its a little whumpy tho), American Sign Language, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Concussions, Deaf Clint Barton, Gen, Kidnapping, M/M, Stabbing, Team as Family, anyway i love lucky and i love clint and i love bucky and i love, bullet wounds, listen...this isnt as whumpy as it looks, lots of it!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 05:45:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18025853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everythingsace/pseuds/everythingsace
Summary: Barnes lifts his metal hand. Three, two, one.The door slams open, bouncing off what is presumably an AIM agent. Clint immediately darts around the door, using Barnes’s arm as cover. He grabs the gun off the agent, along with a couple clips and a knife. With a flick of the wrist, he flings the blade and it hits the other agent in his chest, dead-center.





	Get Home

Clint smells the stinky breath before he can hear anything, before he sees the blinding sun through the crack in the curtains, before he feels his head hurt. He rolls his right leg over, turning himself onto his side, only for his cheek to be met with the warm, rough tongue of his doofus of a dog. His mouth involuntarily curls into a grin.

He pats a quick hand to his chin, before pulling it back down to ruffle Lucky’s ears. Lucky simply leans his head in further and continues to cover Clint’s face in kisses. Clint grins, before shoving his face into his pillow once he gets a bit too much of his dog’s slobber on his mouth.

Then, the dumb dog is putting his paws on Clint’s side and pushing himself up, which really gives the archer no choice but to face the day. If he knows his dog, and he does, he won’t be letting him get another wink of sleep.

“Dumb dog,” Clint mutters, but he pushes himself up onto his elbows anyway. He shoves Lucky away, though the dog is hesitant to let that happen. Clint reaches over to slap around for his hearing aids, only to find them not where he’s  _ sure  _ he left them. He twists and rolls himself out of bed, squinting at his nightstand.

He’d put them there last night. He tilts his head. Well, this morning. Eh, semantics. Where the fuck are his hearing aids?

He tries to look for the flash of purple, checking every shelf, every drawer, under the nightstand, under the bed-- but nowhere. What the  _ fuck? _

Clint just scowls, placing his hands on his hips. He’s about to shout for Kate when he remembers that she headed out around midnight. She could be back by now, but he doubts it. He’s pretty sure she’s got a date with some girl she saved the other day anyway, so he doubts getting back to the apartment is exactly a priority for her.

He turns to Lucky. “You eat ‘em?” he asks, not above blaming his doofus of a dog.

Lucky simply tilts his head, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth.

Clint sighs, before turning and tugging on some sweatpants from the floor. With that, he heads out to his kitchen, his hands already grabby for coffee. He feels the graze of Lucky’s fur against his calf, so he goes ahead and gives the dog a pat as he starts up the coffeemaker.

He spots his phone plugged in a little way down the counter, and he sees that it’s lit up. It’s not flashing, so he knows there isn’t an Avengers issue-- still, few people text him, and Katie-Kate mentioned that she would probably be too busy to chat for a while (on a  _ date, _ not that she’d tell his nosy ass that). 

While he waits, he picks up his phone, thumbing through his notifications to see several texts from the Avengers group chat.

 

_ Dad: hey losers, we’re going out to that pizza place in hell’s kitchen, the one with the giant slices at 7 _

_ Mom: I’m sorry, what Tony meant to say was: do you guys want to go at 7:00 tonight? _

_ Dad: Don’t ruin my fun, snookums. _

_ Inferior Birdman: If you never call him snookums again, sure _

_ Dad:  gosh darn sam cant make it! What a fucking shame _

_ Mom: Tony _

_ Nat: Sure. I’ve got a debriefing at 5, but I should make it. _

_ Bruce: Sure, I don’t have anything to do _

_ Dad: Buck told me he’ll come _

_ Bruce: Thor’s out of the realm again, right? _

_ Dad: Sure is! Sorry, Brucie-kins, but at least this way i don’t have to pay for an Asgardian amount of pizza _

_ Nat: Pretty sure that with the three of them, Bucky, Steve, and Bruce can make up for that amount. _

_ Bruce: i mean… probably. _

_ Nat: And that’s excluding Clint _

_ Mom: speaking of… clint? _

_ Nat: He’s probably asleep _

_ Bruce: its _

_ Bruce: nvm I was going to point out it was two in the afternoon, but it’s clint _

Clint puts his hand to his bare chest, before remembering there was no one to fake drama for. That, and Bruce’s last message had been sent four hours ago.

He grimaces, tapping out a quick response:  _ Excuse. I was asleep and I was enjoying it. _

_ And I can go,  _ he types. He glances at Lucky, who’s giving him the look he always gives when he somehow knows pizza is being discussed. “Calm down, I’ll bring you some leftovers,” he says _ ,  _ setting the phone down. 

He skirts around Lucky to grab his coffee. It’s not as good as Stark’s, but it’s caffeine, so who the hell cares? He tips up the pot and takes a sip, reaching over for his phone when he sees it light up again, this time just a separate text from Natasha.

_ Nat: I know I shouldn’t be surprised, but did you really just wake up? _

He’s typing out a sassy response when he receives the next text.

_ Nat: how many hours did you actually get? _

He scowls. He does the math in his head, approximating twelve, from the time he’d actually gone to bed around six that morning. He’s pretty sure that that’s too much. He shoots her a quick message of  _ a normal amount, _ before grabbing a box of cereal to snack on before it’s time to go.

He’s halfway through shoving a handful of Captain Crunch into his mouth when he then gets a text from Phil.

_ Phil: Have you been trying the meditation your therapist recommended? _

Clint groans, turning his phone’s screen off before plunging his hand back into the box.

Pretty soon, he’s hopping around to put on jeans, almost braining himself on his door frame as he nearly trips over his pant leg. He throws on a flannel over a black t-shirt. He flexes in the mirror, just to make sure he looks like, as Kate says, a snack. He thinks he does.

“What do you think?” He turns to Lucky, who’s sitting up and wagging his tail by his water bowl.

“Shit, dog, you’ve probably gotta pee, yeah? Okay, hold on,” he says. He slips his phone into his pocket, grabbing Lucky’s leash off his dresser. He clips it around his neck, grabbing a plastic bag out of the trash bag hanging from the back of the front door just in case.

Lucky leads him outside, and Clint gasps as he notices a fire hydrant a little down the street, painted to look like Iron Man. “Come on, Lucky!” he says, tugging him along. Lucky stares at him for a moment, but seems to be happy for the short trip anyway.

When they reach the hydrant, Clint points at it. “Pee on it.” 

Lucky just flops his head to the side.

“Pee on the fire hydrant, for the love of God, please, please,” Clint begs, pointing more and more enthusiastically at the hydrant. “Please, if you want me to be happy for the rest of my life, pee on Tony Stark.”

He is definitely getting stared at, but he’s got his phone out, ready to take a picture. “Lucky! Piss on Stark!”

Lucky still looks a little confused, but he follows Clint’s pointing anyway. He lifts his leg, and--

“Ha! Got it!” Clint exclaimed gleefully, bouncing on his toes. “Good boy!” he praises, once Lucky’s done. “You wonderful, wonderful boy!” he says. By this point, a gaggle of old ladies has actually stopped to stare at them, so Clint figures it’s probably time to head back inside.

After making sure Lucky’s not going to take a surprise dump on the steps of the building, Clint brings him back up to their apartment. He refills Lucky’s bowls, feeds him a treat, and tosses a toy before heading out, grabbing his bow and quiver on the way. Just in case.

* * *

 

Clint’s a little late to the pizza place, but it’s pretty easy to find a table full of Avengers, no matter how crowded the place is. He finds them in a spot near a corner of the restaurant, two tables shoved together, chairs pulled from a few others.

There’s a spot open next to Nat, across from Barnes, so Clint takes it, dropping his bow and quiver so they lean against the table. Tony immediately starts talking at him, so Clint has to put up a hand to stop him. He puts his fingertips together, drops them, then taps an X behind his ear. “I lost my hearing aids,” he signs.

Tony throws his head back, rolling his eyes before looking back at him, tapping a V to his forehead. “Idiot. In the future, tell me! I’ll bring the prototype I’ve been working on,” he says, signing along. He only gets the grammar wrong once-- Clint will give him kudos later.

Tony plunges back into what he’d been saying before, this time signing along-- apparently, Steve had attempted to help him assemble a suit, but he ended up breaking multiple fingers off the gauntlet.

“I said sorry!” Steve says, his face screwing up in defense as he circles his fist against his chest.

“Fuck!” Clint says, and he realizes from the flinch of an old lady at a neighboring table that it comes out a little loud. He works to lower his voice, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Lucky pissed on Stark!” he says, tapping across the screen to get to the photo.

From the corner of his eye, he notices Barnes’s hands still halfway through a breadstick. Okay, maybe he should have phrased it differently.

He glances up, sees everyone staring at him, but Tony’s head is jutted forward, his eyebrows furrowed, as he repeatedly signs, “Excuse me?”

Clint cackles to himself, turning the phone around to show everyone. He sees Tony scoff before flipping him the bird, while everyone else starts laughing. Natasha’s grinning and shaking her head. “Idiot,” she signs, pressing the V to her forehead.

He grins, putting his phone away, but not before sending it to the group chat quickly. Tony obviously realizes what he’s doing, as he flips him off once again.

“So what’d you order me?” Clint asks, turning to Natasha.

“We ordered you a slice of your usual, along with half a slice of pepperoni to go for Lucky.”

“You know me so well,” he says, throwing himself against her side. She shoves him off, and he nearly falls off his chair, which he should have expected.

He pouts, grabbing a breadstick from the tray resting on top of the napkin box. He pulls it away, the mozzarella dragging along with it. It doesn’t separate itself from the rest of the cheese, unfortunately, and it all drops back down to the greasy parchment paper. Clint pouts. “Aw, cheese.”

He notices the movement of Barnes’s shoulders, and he glances up to see the man laughing at him. 

Clint scowls, flipping him off before picking up the pile of molten mozzarella. He shoves it in his mouth, only burning his fingers a little. He wipes his hands on his pants, leaving greasy streaks, before lifting his arm to scratch his hair.

Natasha’s face immediately scrunches up. “Jesus, Clint, when was the last time you took a shower?” she asks, not bothering to hide her disgust, even as she furrowed her eyebrows for the “when”.

“Uh,” he says, dropping his arm. 

She curls her lip and circles a clawed hand around her stomach. “Gross.”

“Hey, I didn’t say anything when you dyed your hair blonde, you don’t say anything about my body odor.”

“That was for a  _ mission _ \--”

Clint stops her hands by throwing his own wildly, before actually signing. “You looked like an old woman. It emphasized all the lines on your face.”

A hand shakes the table, and Clint looks over to see it’s Tony’s, slammed onto the surface. His eyes are wide, his eyebrows raised. “Do you  _ want  _ to be killed?” he signs, his movements sharp.

“Natasha  _ loves  _ me,” Clint replies. “She won’t kill me. Not until I’m forty-five, like we discussed.”

“I did not agree to that, Clint,” Nat says.

“I--” Clint starts, only to stop when he notices the unusual stillness in the corner of his eye. He glances over and sees that Barnes is staring with his mouth hanging open, just a little bit.

“What?” he asks, his eyebrows furrowing.

He sees Bucky say something like “uh” before he hesitantly gives a flick by his ear, tilting his head just slightly. “I don’t understand.”

“Oh.” Clint belatedly realizes his and Natasha’s spat had not actually been voiced out loud. He’s pretty sure ASL was not one of the languages HYDRA decided to teach, so Bucky is not nearly as fluent in it as the rest of the group is. Clint shrugs. “I called Nat out for her ugly blonde days,” he says. “It wasn’t a good look. Also, Nat’s gonna kill me when I turn forty-five.”

“I am not,” Natasha argued, raising her hand as she spots an employee carrying two much-too-large trays of food. The employee looks starry-eyed as he brings the pizzas over, his face slack with shock.

“Please!” Clint says. “Kill me,” he signs. “Unless I look like George Clooney or the Trivago guy, kill me.”

“Forty-five isn’t old,” Tony signs from across the table. Clint ignores him.

“Man, why are you obsessed with the Trivago guy?” Sam says, tilting his head. He’s trying to sign, but he doesn’t know much, so he’s mostly fingerspelling everything.

“Have you seen him?” Clint asks, already grabbing a piece of his slice before the kid’s even set it down. “He’s a silver fox.”

“Meanwhile, Tony is just silver?” Bruce suggests.

“Hey! I don’t even have a single grey hair!” Tony argues, puffing his chest.

“Right, because he’s already dyed it this week,” Steve says, tilting his head and giving Tony his I’m-A-Perfectly-Innocent-All-American-Treasure look. It doesn’t stop Tony from  grabbing his arc reactor and hissing, “You traitorous bitch!”

Clint grabs Tony’s attention, because this is important. “If Nat doesn’t kill me, will you?” he asks, raising his eyebrows hopefully.

The billionaire shrugs apologetically. “Sorry. Pepper says I can’t murder anyone unless they’re a supervillain. It’s bad for the press.”

He pouts, sandwiching another two pieces of pizza and shoving them into his mouth. “Goddamn it. I don’t wanna live past forty-five!” he says, but it most likely just sounds like muffled noises through his chipmunked cheeks.

“I feel hurt,” Tony says. Clint ignores him again.

“Don’t worry, Clint,” Steve says, grinning too-innocently. “I feel great, and I’m barely ninety-eight!”

“Shut the fuck u--” 

He stops. There’s a woman sitting a few tables away, and she just got up to get her third refill drink since he’d gotten there. Normally, he wouldn’t think anything of it, but he’s pretty sure he catches her lips moving as she goes.

Clint quickly changes course, signing a quick story of Lucky, except halfway in, he throws in their emergency signal for “Avengers”-- just a quick double-tap of an A on his wrist.

Everyone catches it, even Barnes, who’s been staring like he’s mostly lost the whole time. Clint cranks his neck, acting as if to pop it, but he’s gesturing towards the woman. Everyone subtly arms themselves-- Tony flexes his hand just right, and his watch unfolds into his gauntlet, Steve’s own watch doing the same into a version of the shield; Sam, Nat, and Bucky each slide a gun out of… somewhere; and Clint slips his quiver onto his back and his bow in hand in one fluid motion. Bruce just braces himself in case of a Code Green.

Unfortunately, since a bow is hardly as discreet as a gun, it definitely catches the enemy’s attention.

Clint can’t hear the gunshot, but he sees the man near the door fire. “Get out!” Clint yells, even as people start running towards the exits. Luckily, the bullet doesn’t hit anyone, but he’s pretty damn sure this is about to turn into a firefight.

He smoothly nocks a few arrows, firing them off. He hits two of the other side-- the drink lady, and a man in dark gear who’d just snuck in from the back. The lady goes down, an arrow in her chest, while the man simply stumbles from the arrow to the shoulder. Clint ducks the man’s bullet, firing another shot. The man goes down like a bag of bricks.

He spins around, and he spots a door behind the counter swinging shut-- but the cook he sees through the window had been far closer to another exit.

He sprints across the room, springing himself off the counter. He shoves through the door, sees the cook, but then he spots a woman near the fridge, aiming a gun at the cook. The cook has his hands up, shaking awfully. 

Clint has an arrow aimed at her in less than a second. “Let him go,” he says.

The woman raises an eyebrow, and he reads her lips: “You think your outdated weaponry scares me? A gun is a hell of a lot faster than a bow.”

Clint shrugs a shoulder, a corner of his mouth quirking up. “You haven’t seen me shoot,” he says. The arrow sprouts from her head and she falls to the ground without another word.

“You good?” Clint asks, approaching the cook. “Any injuries, or--?” he says, extending a hand to help the guy up. 

“Thank you,” the man says, still visibly shaking.

“No problem. Now,” he says, “Get out of here. Take a back exit, avoid as much fire as you c--” 

Clint can barely think as he feels a blunt force being thrown into his side, along with a hot, fiery pain as the cook, obviously an agent in disguise, plunges a knife into his left shoulder. Then, his head hits the floor, and he can’t think at all.

* * *

 

Clint blinks blearily. His head hurts like hell; it’s like someone is inside his brain and has taken to thudding a crowbar against his skull. And that’s not even mentioning his shoulder. He’s pretty sure that, if his shoulder wasn’t connected to the rest of his body, it would already be dead and haunting Nick Fury. In other words-- fucking  _ ow. _

Clint can’t move his hands-- when he tries, he feels the bite of coarse ropes holding them back. Still, he can tell it’s a standard handcuff knot-- it is locked in place with a reef knot, though. That makes it a little tough, but he should be able to get out of it in not too long.

He scans his surroundings. It’d help if he had his hearing aids, to hear for any noise outside, but he’ll have to do without. He opts for watching under the door instead-- no footsteps yet.

He cranes his neck back, trying to get an idea of his situation. The room is dark, and the air is heavy and cold enough to assume he’s underground. Wait--  _ they’re  _ underground.

Because behind him, just a few feet away, is the Winter Soldier himself. Actually, Clint doesn’t know if Barnes likes that name. He hasn’t exactly spent much time with him.

Clint whispers, “You up?” before realizing he’s a dumbass.

He presses his tied feet to the floor, pushing to the left. The chair moves just slightly. The noise is probably terrible, but  _ ha.  _ He keeps going, pushing himself by just a few inches each time. Eventually, he’s moved and twisted enough that he’s facing Barnes, now to the left of Barnes rather than directly behind him. 

He sees Barnes’s lips moving, so at least he’s up. However, his speaking means absolutely nothing to him.

“Still can’t hear you,” the archer says. “And it’s too dark to read your lips clearly. The angle’s shit, too.”

Barnes winces. A glance tells Clint that Barnes’s own restraints are fraying, but he still can’t do any actual signing yet. However, he can see Barnes’s fingers moving, even as he tries to rip through the rope. S-E-E W-H-O?

Clint shakes his head, before pausing. He thinks through the events of earlier, whenever they were. He thinks he remembers seeing a glimpse of yellow on one of the agents’ suits.

He moves through a quick A-I-M, then flattens his hand and shakes it.  _ Maybe. _

He looks up at Barnes’s face, only to see him still staring at Clint’s hand, his eyes narrowed.

Oh. Probably too fast. He slows down. A… I… M. He shakes his hand again. “Not sure,” he whispers. 

Barnes nods, before flexing his metal wrist sharply. The rope around that hand falls limp, and he’s able to pull the other loop loose soon pretty easily. Then, he’s bending over and sliding the metal plates of his fingers roughly against the ropes around his shins once, twice, three times, and then the rope splits and falls. Clint nods, impressed. He wishes he had a metal arm, not for the first time.

Then, Barnes is behind him. Now he can actually get in a decent position to use the full strength of his arms, and he easily grabs the rope between Clint’s wrists and  _ yanks,  _ and the rope just completely snaps.

_ That was hot, _ Clint thinks, and Barnes pauses mid-step as he’s making his way around to Clint’s front, his eyes darting towards him. Aw, mouth.

“Wow,” Clint says. “Did you hear someone say something? I did not,” he says.

Barnes just purses his lips before shaking his head, looking slightly amused. He crouches down and quickly rips the rope around Clint’s ankles, and all of it is way faster than Clint could’ve done. That metal arm is awesome, man.

Barnes taps his own shoulder, standing to his feet. He’s looking at Clint with concern.

“Fine,” Clint says, tapping his thumb to his chest, even though his shoulder is definitely throbbing like hell and probably bleeding too much.

Barnes gives him a look that tells him just how much he believes that, but he doesn’t say anything about it. Instead, he just gestures to his head, tapping his indexes together, his eyebrows raised.

“That’s fine, too,” Clint says, tapping his chest again. He stands, moving towards the door, ignoring Barnes’s disbelieving glare. At least Clint’s pretty sure he doesn’t have a concussion. If he does, it’s a teensy-weensy one, so he’s good.

“Hear anything?” Clint asks, his eyebrows raised.

Barnes pauses, walking towards the door. He puts his hand against the wall, tilting his head towards it. After a few seconds, he finger-spells F-E-E-T, then meets his thumbs together before pushing his right one forward, angling to the right of the door. Footsteps, but they’re far away.

Clint throws his hands up toward the air, opening them. “How many?” he whispers.

Barnes holds up two fingers.

Okay, cool, this should be easy then. Clint crouches down, pulling a lock pick from his sock. He immediately starts jimmying the lock, and it doesn’t take long at all. Barnes taps the top of the lock when he hears it click, and then puts his hand on the handle.

He lifts his metal hand.  _ Three, two, one _ .

The door slams open, bouncing off what is presumably an AIM agent. Clint immediately darts around the door, using Barnes’s arm as cover. He grabs the gun off the agent, along with a couple clips and a knife. With a flick of the wrist, he flings the blade and it hits the other agent in his chest, dead-center.

He loots him, too, pulling out another gun and knife. He hands them off to Barnes, before retrieving his bloody knife from the dead body.

Clint barely has the word “which” out of his mouth when Barnes starts walking the way the agents came. Well, walking is a light word for the Winter Soldier Strut, but that’s not important.

They’ve only come across three more agents when they reach a staircase. Of course, that’s when lights start flashing. Briefly, Clint’s glad he doesn’t have his hearing aids.

They each break into a run, shooting down agents as soon as they appear. The staircase quickly becomes chaotic. Agents start spilling in from every story-- the two assassins are hitting the first floor below ground when even Clint can  _ feel _ the noise coming from the gunfire. He feels a sharp pain explode in his thigh, but he doesn’t have time to worry about it. 

In front of him, Barnes propels himself up onto the shoulders of an AIM agent. From there, he shoots down at least four agents coming at them from above, all while twisting his thighs around his mount’s neck. Barnes lands on his feet easily, even as the agent beneath him falls heavily.

Clint takes the open opportunity and dashes up the steps, using his good shoulder to burst through the first-level door.

The door bursts open, and Clint immediately fires down any agent in sight. He distantly feels a dull pain in his shoulder, but it’s probably just a little bruised-- he’s had far worse. He pulls up his gun and takes down another agent as he sprints down the hall. He spots a sign pointing towards the exit-- maybe not the best idea for a place you plan on keeping captives?

It made it easy for Clint, though. He was already running-- a quick glance told him Barnes was following, so he didn’t slow down.

He rounds the corner, his feet going even faster as he sees the exit. Of course, that’s when half the doors in the hallway slam open, revealing a shit-ton of agents that are armed. 

The archer takes down several of them, shooting down most and hurling his knife so it stabs one of them in the sternum. He clocks one in the jaw, knocking him over like a bowling pin, before kicking a charging agent directly in the chest.

Unfortunately, even if he can take them down while extremely outnumbered, it doesn’t stop him from taking hits. He gets a few punches to the face, along with a harsh kick to his side and a sharp pain that he’s sure is another shot in his leg. Still, he keeps going, and soon enough, he’s bursting through the door at the end of the hall.

It’s far brighter outside, even coming from the lit halls of the base, and Clint stumbles for a second as the light hits his eyes. He feels a hand grab his upper arm-- it’s his good one at least-- in a tight grip, and he’s being pulled along.

A glance to the side tells him it’s Barnes, so he’s okay. Clint steadies himself and quickly starts pulling his own weight. Barnes is running forward, but his body is half-turned to shoot down the agents chasing after them. A super-soldier is a hell of a lot faster than the agents, and Clint has enough adrenaline to keep up with him. 

They navigate between the trees around them-- Clint can’t see another building anywhere. The upside, at least, is the agents trailing after them have been thinning. Clint estimates that they’re maybe a mile out by the time they realize that there isn’t anyone chasing after them anymore.

Of course, with that realization, Clint’s adrenaline starts on the decline, and he fumbles clumsily to the ground.

He braces himself with his arms, but that hurts like hell on his shoulder, which is… not feeling good. His entire body is not feeling good.

He feels a metal grip grab his not-shot shoulder and then he’s being roughly turned onto his back. He groans, and he forces himself to open his eyes. Barnes’s face is hovering above him, a crease between his brows. He signs roughly, tapping his indexes together, then waves one.

“Shoulder,” Clint says, “And leg. Two shoots. Shots.” He winces, reaching a hand up towards his shoulder, because it is throbbing in a nasty way.

Barnes bats it away, shaking his head. He lifts his hands as if to say something, but then he just shakes his head. With one quick motion, he tears off the sleeve of his jacket. He looks like a doofus, but Clint supposes he probably isn’t one to talk, what with being the proud new owner of two bullet holes and a stab wound.

Pretty quickly, Barnes ties the disembodied sleeve around Clint’s bloody shoulder. The pressure doesn’t feel great, but Clint knows it’s better than bleeding out all his shoulder guts. And hey, at least it’s not a tourniquet. Shit could be worse.

Next, Barnes rips off the sleeve of his shirt. Clint would give an appreciative whistle at those biceps if he wasn’t in so much pain. He ties up Clint’s thigh, then rips off one of Clint’s own sleeves to wrap around his calf. As he finishes up the knot, Clint mutters, “Is this kinky? It’s probably kinky.”

Barnes just swats his good leg. 

“That’s kinky, too.”

Barnes stands up, and he walks near Clint’s head. He waves his arm, and Clint sees him say, “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Ugh. Can’t this just be my new home?”

Barnes just waves again.

Clint groans, but he puts his hands on the ground and pushes himself up. He stands, and he rolls his shoulder, regretting it immediately. “Ow.”

In front of him, Barnes simply signs, “Home.” 

They start walking. It’s a little chilly, but he has other things to worry about. His wounds are definitely still bleeding, even if the ties help, so he tries not to apply too much pressure to his right leg, without making it seem too obvious.

Unfortunately, he’s so distracted by his pain and masking it, he doesn’t realize that Barnes is trying to sign to him. He feels a hard nudge on his good arm, and he looks up with a start.

Barnes is frowning at him, with his eyebrows furrowed in the same way they’ve been since they got kidnapped. Clint groans, stepping forward with what’s definitely too much pressure on his right foot, but he forces down a reaction. “S’rry. You were saying?”

Barnes’s fingers move quickly- he doesn’t know much, but at least he’s a quick finger-speller. How. You. L-O-S-E. A-I-D.

“The ‘how’ goes at the end, buddy,” Clint says. When he notices Barnes cast his eyes to the ground briefly, he immediately feels guilty. “It’s okay, though. Most of the others don’t even have it yet, ‘cept Tasha.”

“Sorry,” Barnes signs. 

“S’chill. Besides, I’m not one to talk. I’m pretty stupid when it comes to regular, basic English.”

Barnes rolls his eyes, shaking his head, but then he repeats his question from before, this time using the correct grammar.

Clint shrugs, wincing as it aggravates his shoulder. “I dunno. It’s somewhere in my apartment, I think. If Lucky didn’t eat it.”

He freezes. “Lucky!” He twists around violently, throwing himself off balance. He stumbles for a moment, before two hands grip his waist and help him upright. 

Barnes’s eyebrows are knit together, but Clint barely notices. His eyes are still darting around the forested space, as if there’s any way he can find his dog in wherever-the-fuck-they-are. 

Barnes quickly moves in front of him. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

“I don’t know how long we’ve been gone! Lucky’s all alone in the apartment! What if something happens to him?”

He feels a feathery-light hand on his good shoulder, despite the hand being made of metal. “I’m sure he’s fine,” Barnes says. “We couldn’t have been gone for more than a day. I’m sure he’s fine.” The former-assassin places a hand on his own chest, taking in an exaggerated breath. “Come on, he’s fine.”

Clint tries to steady his own breathing, tries to shush the not-actually-there noise in his ears. “He’s fine.”

“Yeah. Worst case, he took a dump on the carpet.”

“I don’t got a carpet,” Clint mutters, shaking his head.

“Even better,” Barnes says. “You can clean it up real easy. Hey, and what’s to say that Kate girl hasn’t checked in?”

“Uh… I dunno,” Clint says, finally able to take an actual breath. “He’s fine.”

“Damn right he is.”

Clint shut his eyes for a moment, continuing his full breaths. Once he feels steady, he opens his eyes again. “Sorry,” he says, taking a couple steps back. “For being dumb.”

There’s a sharp flick on his arm, which seems unfair. “Hey, knock it off,” Barnes says, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Knock what off?” Clint asks, stepping forward, wincing as the pain in his leg gets a little louder.

“Callin’ yourself dumb. Stop that,” Barnes says, frowning.

Clint squints at him. “Wh- dude, I dropped out of school when I was like ten. It’s pretty safe to say I’m stupid. I know that, and it’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” Barnes says, and now his frown is getting into Angry Frown territory. “You’re not stupid, stop saying that shit about yourself.”

Clint pulls his head back, still squinting. “It’s fine, man, I know the truth-”

“Well, clearly not, because you’re spoutin’ lies-”

“I am not, and it’s not a big deal anyway-”

“It is if you believe it! You can’t just-”

“Be honest with myself? I deserve at least-”

Suddenly, a wave of nausea hits Clint like a club to the back of the head. He trips over his own feet, hands reaching out to catch himself. He feels hands grab at his torso, but he bats them away, feeling the acid fill his throat. 

He lowers himself to the ground with the help of the hands bracing his body, but it doesn’t stop the jolt shooting through his shot-up leg. Before he can spout a warning, he feels the bile swell up. He quickly twists to the side, barely acknowledging the fire in his shoulder, as he retches. Nasty remnants of whatever was leftover in his stomach falls into the grass. He chokes and spits, his head bursting with pain with every movement.

He sits there for a second, a string of vomit hanging from his mouth to the ground, and he groans before coughing again, trying to get whatever’s left  _ out. _

Distantly, he feels a soft pressure on his back, but his head is pounding, so he can’t really pay any attention to it. He hacks a little, trying to clear the rest of the burning acid from his throat. 

Finally, he rolls back so he’s sitting up. He still feels sick, but he doesn’t think there’s anything left. He blinks a few times, trying to get the spots out of his eyes. “S’rry.”

He feels another flick, and he blinks his eyes open. “Hm?” he says, feeling very gross and exhausted. His mouth tastes disgusting.

“Stop saying sorry,” Barnes says, and it’s a good thing he’s signing because Clint can not concentrate enough to read lips right now.

Clint feels like he should argue, but he is very tired. So instead, he just mumbles, “‘Kay.” 

He shuts his eyes again for a moment, and then he feels a hand gently maneuver its way under his good arm. He gets the message and pushes down on the ground, using Barnes’s steady grip to slowly get to his feet. 

He barely catches Barnes’s question of O-K? He nods, even though it hurts.

Now that he’s watching, Barnes signs out, “You have a C-O-N-C-U-S-S-I-O-N.” His eyebrows are raised, and he looks kinda annoyed.

Clint could make a sarcastic remark, it’d be really easy, but he guesses he probably should have listed that earlier while reciting his injuries. Instead, he barely nods.

“We’re going home soon,” Barnes says. “For now, you need to stay awake.”

Clint knows the rules of concussions. He waves Barnes off. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, and his throat is still burning and gross. “How soon, do you think?” he asks.

“I bet you they’re just a few minutes out. You know how pissed Nat gets when you go missing,” Barnes says. 

“Says you, Mr. Cap’n-America-followed-me-even when-I...was-a-Terminator,” Clint says, and his words kind of trail off into nonsensical mumbles, and even he can realize that without hearing it.

“Then we have even better chances,” Barnes says. 

“Good,” Clint says, and he squeezes his eyes shut as a sudden wave of nausea passes through him. He pauses, waiting for it to pass. When it does, he opens his eyes to see a pair of concerned gray ones. Clint blows through his mouth, before nodding determinedly. “‘Kay. Let’s keep going.”

“You sure?” Barnes asks. “We can stay here. When I hear the quinjet, I’ll fire a shot.”

“You don’t got a  _ flare _ gun,” Clint argues.

“So? JARVIS will sense it, if Steve doesn’t hear it first. We’re stayin’ here.”

Clint sighs. “Fine. Can we sit back down then?”

Barnes helps him to the ground again, this time against a tree. He sits down across from him, tucking a knee to his chest. He locks an arm around the knee, before tilting his head towards Clint. “Tell me about this apartment of yours.”

“Why?” Clint asks, leaning his head against the tree. Barnes snaps his fingers at him, so Clint sits up again.

“To make sure you stay awake, dumbass. Go on,” the ex-soldier says.

Clint rolls his eyes for a moment, before letting his head roll to the side. “I dunno. I share it with Kate, but only kind of. She just comes in every few days to make sure I’m not dead or bouncing off the walls.”

Barnes just nods, so he continues.

“And then I have Lucky. I got him from the same guys I took the building from. Some Russian guys who were shitty dudes. They’d broken his leg, so obviously I made sure that wouldn’t happen again. And I also now own an apartment building, which kinda sucks, because I don’t know how to do any of the things a landlord is supposed to. Like I dunno how to fix leaky sinks or adjust the AC. I kinda just go off YouTube videos.”

Barnes shrugs. “Whatever works,” he says.

“I guess,” Clint says. “We have barbecues sometimes. I think half the building actually thinks my name is Hawk _ guy, _ which is a thing, I guess.” He pouts.

Barnes cracks a grin, and Clint realizes he’s laughing. 

“Shut the fuck up,” he says. “Mr. Weiner Soldier.”

Bucky quickly stops, fixing Clint with the stink eye. “That doesn’t count. That’s just Sam.”

“It counts,” Clint argues. “Anyway, the other half of the building don’t actually think I’m an Avenger, so.”

“Do they not watch the news?” Barnes asks.

“They’re all old and pretty blind, so it’s a possibility. That or they’re messing with me,” Clint ponders. He squinted at a random patch of grass. “I think that might actually be the case,” he says.

Barnes grins again. “So what’s Lucky like?” he asks.

Clint then details all of Lucky’s quirks. He talks about the way the dog used to try to attack the door whenever someone knocked. He talks about the time he found a half-chewed hearing aid under the coffee table, which is why he’s so willing to blame him this time. He talks about Lucky’s infatuation with pizza, and he talks about the time Lucky once saved him from the Russian mafia. He has to pause a few times to get his head to stop hurting and for his shoulder to be more bearable, but Barnes is patient. Come to think of it, after all this, Clint figures he should probably stop calling the guy by his last name.

His voice feels raw (although that’s possibly due to the earlier puking) by the time he notices Bucky suddenly straighten up, his eyes darting towards the sky.

“Our saviors?” Clint asks, his arms moving sluggishly.

Bucky nods, before slipping his gun into shooting position. He fires a shot towards the sky, and Clint can feel it.

The archer shakes his head, but he can’t help the corner of his mouth that’s creeping up. “S’not a flare.”

Bucky smirks, and he flicks a finger towards the sky. Not thirty seconds later, Clint can see leaves begin to flutter off the ground. He glances back, and Bucky quirks an eyebrow. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Clint rolled his eyes, and he tries to ignore the way it makes his head pulse. He doesn’t think he did a great job, though, given the way Bucky frowns.

The assassin budges over so he’s next to Clint, and he worms an arm around his torso. He pats Clint once, a clear signal of “let’s go,” so the archer takes a deep breath. He lets his own arm grab at Bucky’s, fingers gripping tight at the metal plates. He feels himself grunt as they push themselves up. The pain in his legs flare up, but he just digs his teeth into his lip and pushes past it.

Finally, he’s at least at his full height, but his legs and his arm (not to mention his  _ head) _ are screaming. Now that he knows help is close, everything is suddenly feeling a helluva lot worse.

Clint feels Bucky tense weirdly, and he glances over to realize that he’s shouting. He squints, catching a glimpse of “Steve!”

He glances in the direction he’s yelling at, and in just a few seconds, he sees a flash of red and gold.

The Iron Man suit zooms into view. Clint feels the body next to him tense a few more times as Tony lands.

He sees a quick “What happened?” and as the faceplate retracts, Clint can see the frantic look on his face.

Clint taps a thumb to his chest, but Tony immediately gives a mechanical, yet fluid, “Bullshit.” He visibly sighs, shaking his head, but then he says, “But we’ll talk about that later.” Clint sees him glance down before saying to Steve, presumably, into the coms. “Hawkeye’s hurt.”

He looks up again, and he taps his indexes together, his eyebrows knitted together.

“Two bullets in the leg,” he says. “And I got stabbed in the shoulder.”

He feels Bucky start talking, and he looks over to see him add, “Concussion, too.”

Clint sees Tony mutter a  _ shit, _ but he doesn’t catch much else because then he’s glancing over the armored shoulder as he sees a figure clad in red, white, and blue emerge from the trees, dashing at full speed.

“Hey, Mom,” Clint calls, then immediately regrets it as he feels his brain beat itself up. 

Cap starts slowing down as he reaches Tony, but he still hurries to Clint's other side.

Clint feels Cap tuck an arm under his bad shoulder, and he bites back a string of curses. He tastes copper, but he tries to ignore it. “Home now?” he asks.

In front of him, Tony nods. “Yes,” he signs. “We’re going home. Bruce is gonna start patching you up on the quinjet, but you’re going straight to medical once we land.”

Normally, Clint would argue, but his shoulder and his everything are screaming a bit too much for him to complain. So he just nods, slumping his head forward. 

Together, Bucky and Steve take a step forward, and Clint’s feet more or less drag across the grass. He can’t feel much besides the pain, but he can tell that the super-soldiers are talking to each other.

“Man,” Clint says, and he has no idea how the words are coming out. “If all I needed to… get in on a super-soldier sandwich was... get shot a bunch, I woulda done it ages ago.” He feels a metal flick against his side, which, rude.

He thinks he might’ve dissociated for a little, as the next thing he knows, they’re edging up the ramp to the quinjet.

“Oh, we’re here,” he mutters, and he sees Bruce rushing down towards them. He might be imagining it, he’s not exactly fully lucid, but he thinks he sees a tinge of green in the scientist’s face. 

He watches, as they slowly make it up, Bruce say some things to one of the super-soldiers. He feels one of them respond, but he doesn’t bother trying to see whatever they’re saying. Once they’re actually onboard, he starts being led towards a cot.

Once he’s settled, Bucky and Steve finally pull away.

Bruce begins prodding at his leg, so Clint quickly looks away. He sees a glimpse of Tony back at the controls, but more importantly, he sees Natasha moving towards him.

He rolls his eyes towards Bucky. “She’s gon’ kill me,” he says. “She’s gonna… like,  _ murder _ me.”

Bucky cracks a grin, shaking his head. “Nah, I don’t think so. Kick your ass? Maybe.”

Clint glares at him, and he lifts a tired arm enough to hit his chin with a sharp B. Bucky just gives him a cheeky smile before he’s suddenly shoved aside.

“Dumbass!” Natasha signs, giving him his least favorite Murder Glare.

“I didn’t  _ choose  _ this. You should be feeling sorry for me. Get me- oh, God, fuck, fuck,  _ fuck- _ Banner, what the fucking fuck are you  _ doing?” _ he grits out, glaring at the scientist.

Bruce simply smiles apologetically, holding up a bullet with a pair of tweezers. “Sorry,” he signs, but it’s kinda gross because he has some blood on his gloves. “If I could do this painlessly, I would.”

“Yeah, fuck off,” Clint grumbles, rolling his head back to stare at the ceiling. As he does, he feels the quinjet become to take off, more in his stomach than anything else.

“Ugh,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut and grabbing at the edge of the cot. “Stark, I’mma fuckin’ kick your ass.”

Obviously, he doesn’t hear a response, but he doesn’t care. He’s a little busy trying not to barf again. “I hate… so much,” he grumbles.

This time, it’s a sympathetic pat on his good shoulder, and he can feel that it’s metal. For some reason, it helps.

Finally, he feels the quinjet stabilize, and he lets out a slow sigh. “C’n I sleep now?” he asks, blinking his eyes open.

Bruce moves away from his leg, grabbing one of his tiny flashlights from the extensive first aid kit. He flicks it on and points it in Clint’s eyes.

The archer flinches, but he tries not to blink too much, looking a little to the left of the light itself. Then, the light’s gone, and Bruce pats hits shoulder. “You should be fine. The ride back isn’t too long anyway, so we’ll be waking you up soon enough,” he signs.

“Ugh,” Clint says, but he shuts his eyes again. He feels Bruce begin to dig again for the other bullet, and it  _ sucks _ , but soon enough, he feels himself start to drift.

* * *

 

Clint wakes up to the very familiar smell of dog breath.

He blinks his eyes open, grinning as he sees Lucky’s panting face inches from his. “Hey, buddy,” he says, grinning widely, and he reaches a hand up to pet him. However, he immediately feels that his shoulder is very restricted, and he puts together where he is.

“Huh,” he says, tilting his head at Lucky. “You’re not supposed to be in medical.”

He feels a nudge in his side, and he looks up to see Bucky grinning at him. He extends a hand, and Clint’s eyes widen when he spots the purple hearing aids lying on his palm. He reaches over Lucky and grabs them, immediately placing them in his ears, carefully clicking them on.

He quickly starts to hear the monotone beeping next to him, along with Lucky’s panting breaths. His smile widens as he lifts his good arm to scratch at his dog’s ears, and Lucky grins and starts trying to get closer, lapping at his face.

He hears a chuckle, so Clint glances up to look at Bucky. The man has a soft look on his face, one he doesn’t see very often. 

“Where’d you find them?” the archer asks, pointing at his ear.

“Kate came in after Natasha called her. She said she found them wedged between your nightstand and the wall,” he says, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, come on,” Clint whines, sinking back into his pillow. Lucky, of course, follows, so Clint can’t frown for long. “How did you guys get him in here?” he asks. “Because I’m sure he’s not actually allowed.”

Bucky shrugs, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The docs might generally be used to our shit, but when the Black Widow gives  _ puppy dog eyes, _ it’s kind of terrifying in a very strange way.”

Clint squints, trying to think of what that would look like, but he reckons that he’s probably better off without figuring it out. Instead, he decides to assess the damage that’s been strewn across his body.

His legs are both bandaged up, he can see that much past the hospital gown. When he cranes his neck, he can see that his shoulder is also wrapped, his forearm lying beside him. He also sees an IV next to him, filled what he assumes is antibiotics or maybe painkillers. Actually, given the distinct lack of pain he’s feeling, he’s very willing to bet it’s painkillers.

He grins up at Bucky. “I’m on the good stuff, aren’t I?” he says. “The _good_ good stuff?”

Bucky snorts out a laugh, before nodding. “Yeah, you are. You’re also stuck here for another two days.”

The grin immediately falls off Clint’s face. “No,” he whines. “I  _ hate _ it here.”

“You got your dog, what else do you need?” Bucky teases, giving Lucky a quick pat on his belly, which apparently rocks his world because the dog immediately perks up, lifting his legs away from his stomach for more. Bucky, obviously, obliges.

“You’re a traitor, Luck. A  _ traitor,” _ Clint grumbles, but he gives him scritches anyway. He looks up at Bucky then, and he gives him a glare. “And for your information, coffee. And pizza,” he says.

“No coffee,” says the super-soldier, “But I’ll see what I can do about the pizza.”

“Good,” Clint mutters. “When’s debrief?”

Bucky waves him off. “Already done.” Clint clearly makes a face, because he continues, “You and I were together the whole time, and I was awake longer anyway. You can give Steve more details later, but you don’t got to sit in a conference room for an hour this time around.”

“Oh, thank fuck,” Clint says, leaning back and staring at the ceiling.

“Yeah,” says Bucky. “You’re welcome. As a return favor…”

Clint pouts, turning his head to glare, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “What?”

Bucky grins innocently. “I get to walk your dog at least once. I’ve been staring at his adorable face for an hour.”

Clint’s face breaks into a smile, and he laughs, nodding. “Yeah, I can do that. Just make sure he pisses on Stark again,” he says, and he closes his eyes to the sound of delighted, and decidedly pretty, laughter.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote something!! Of course, this has sat unfinished for uhhh probably half a year by now, but!! god knows I needed a distraction from life! theres so much drama in my dorm y'all (like police-level drama and i'm dead inside)
> 
> Anyway, I started this fic approximately eight hundred years ago because while I love deaf Clint, many fics I read depicting ASL are clearly written by people who don't know ASL. I'm certainly not an expert in sign language, but I am extremely interested in the language, and I like to think I know quite a bit. My grammar's iffy for sure, but I'm working on it. Anyway, I just wanted to represent a deaf Clint Barton as accurately as I could.
> 
> That said, if you noticed any mistakes, please let me know! (Especially if it's something tragic like Clint hearing something without his hearing aids, because I went through repeatedly making sure that did /not/ happen, but I know I miss things sometimes and am occasionally stupid.)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this fic! As always, my tumblr is tonystarkreactor, where i post fics and art sometimes. Kudos + comments are always appreciated <3


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